WHAT IS OUR OFFENSE ? WHEN THE CLASSROOM BECAME A SIN

Voice One: Had I known, I would have ended up in the garage of broken journeys,maybe I would not be held captive by this silence of now. Voice Two: They said the road of ink leads to golden doors,but mine drifted into a forest where wolves patrol the paths. Voice Three: Daniel once whispered, "Leave the chalked walls,follow the sound of drums, carry the bones of music." But I stayed. Had I known... Voice Four: We only reached for light through books,dreaming of names written in tomorrow’s sky. But here we are,our minds being rewired by wolves. Voice Five: Do you see the crowned void that rules from above,where wolves feast beneath banners of mercy,and a land forgets its own reflection? Voice Six: If the path of ink can still lead to iron hands,and survival now breathes through shattered innocence,what becomes of the soul that chooses the pagewhile wolves circle the classroom door? Silence falls like a torn curtain. The throne above us speaks in echoes without answers. Those who once promised shelternow leave the flock to wander among wolves. Even the heavens feel too far to touch. So who descends for us in this hour of dust? Voice Seven: I do not call for a savior. Carry my voice across the fields of listening ears. We are the hands we have been waiting for. A season of choosing is near,where crowns are placed not by fate,but by footsteps. Yet the sky feels empty of guardians. Voice Echoed: What shadow have we become within ourselves? Our undoing is carved in the hands of many,elders who forgot the weight of tomorrow,voices that turned away from the fragile flame of youth. A nation split like dry soil under one sun,each crack widening with borrowed silence,each silence becoming a den for wolves. How many hold the small card of choice in their pockets,while the wind carries their waiting elsewhere? We argue in the glow of screens,but the streets remember our absence. How many possess the power to choose,yet surrender their voice to echoes? I may fade into the dust of this moment,but what I have spoken will refuse silence. A crack in the sky... Paaaaa... The echo of falling thunder. The wolves may remember our names,but so will history. And it remains. <a class="tc-blue external-link" href="https://twocents.space/insights/tag/save" rel="noopener noreferrer" target="_blank">#SAVE</a> D 46 CAPTIVES

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